


A Thousand Scattered Suns (Or: Polo doesn’t understand how to get Christian Varela Expósito to love him back)

by TheIntelligentDesigner



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Alvaro Rico is so hot I needed to write some fanfic about his character, But I love Carla too, Character Study, F/M, I mean he is bisexual like canon but y’all know what I mean. He is a big old queer., Idk I decided to find out, M/M, Multi, Polo X everyone, Polo crushes on everyone he meets, Polo doesn’t get enough love, Polo needs everyone to love him and is a murderer because of that?, Polo/Christian - Freeform, SEASON THREE KILLED ME TOO, Some sexy scenes because why not but not really, Why is polo so messed up, Wow, also his first name was Leopoldo, anyone who watches elite in anything other than the original Spanish is dumb, bc Alvaro rico’s voice is so sexy, even though I hate str8, everything about this is stupid, it's Villada, listen in the original Spanish and read in subtitles for your own language, mostly feelings and thought bubbles, or you know there are other reasons not trying to be ableist but if you can, polo has feelings, polo is A Gay, polo plays piano because that should be canon, probably the main point of this is Polo/Christian, trying to do real tags now, we finally learned Polo's last name
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2020-11-08 17:12:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIntelligentDesigner/pseuds/TheIntelligentDesigner
Summary: My head canon on Polo, and a tale of getting Christian to love him even though he’s a seriously screwed up murderous SOB.“It’s like I wake up and I look at the sky above me and instead of one bright spot far far away, a star that I will never reach — instead of that, I see a thousand scattered suns, bright spots of possibility. Doors that you have opened for me. Days of a future passed. Moments of forgiveness, rays of grace, the chance that I might be more than just a fucking murderer.”





	1. A Short History of a Boy Named Polo, Who Deserves a Last Name but Doesn’t Appear to Have One.

**Author's Note:**

> My thoughts on this dumb fucking tv show that I love so much:
> 
> Polo is like totally insecure in every way. Someone who loves freely but feels like he deserves nothing he’s ever received from life, especially considering how privileged he’s been in receiving it without effort. So he manipulates the shit out of everyone out of his desire for some semblance of *control*. But it’s so ambiguously mixed. Did he have sex with Christian to control the arc of his relationship with Carla? Yes. Did he also have sex with Christian because he was desperately in love with him? Yes.
> 
> Did he hook up with Ander to keep him on his side once the inevitable truth came out? Yes. Did he also hook up with Ander because he’s been in love with him since he first laid eyes on him? Yes.

“Christian…please.”

“Please what? Please suck my dick so I can be on the cover of a magazine? Please cover up a fucking murder for me? Please fucking what, Polo? Polito?” The last was said with an ugly sneer, an up and down glance at his body, making Polo want to curl in on himself and disappear.

“Christian…please,” Polo said, at a loss for words, plaintive and humiliated and desperate all at once.

Christian laid back, tucked his arms around his head, laying there in the hospital bed with a broken body and a face full of flat denial.

“I’m gonna need more than that, Polo.”

—

Weirdly enough, the moment Polo first laid eyes on Christian, his first thought was of Ander.

The two looked nothing alike, and they shared even less in common, generally speaking. Ander was the son and product of a privileged elite. Not as rich as someone like Polo or Carla or Guzman — just the son of a pedagogue and a lawyer — but still firmly in the upper crust.

Christian was different. Working class, rough and tumble and drugs and sex and booze spilling out of every pore of his body.

But Ander, despite his lack of extreme wealth, was an embodiment of class. He was grace incarnate, Polo had often thought. Smoothed out edges, quick with his hands, even quicker with his eyes, all belied by a slow and careful heart. 

When he played on the court, every muscle was devoted to a singular action, economical and perfect and utterly focused on achieving a goal. He was beautiful like that, and Polo had never missed one of his matches.

Ander was beautiful, and he was Polo’s best friend.

They’d had their first drink together. Their first joint. Their first *everything*.

For Polo, Ander was tied up in every true moment of happiness he’d ever felt.

Every time he saw Ander smile, Polo’s day, his future, the trajectory of everything that ever mattered, brightened just a tiny bit.

When Ander jumped out of his family’s pool, all wet and hot and bothered by a tiny swimsuit, Polo thought about what it would be like to lay on his back and let his best friend take control for just a while longer.

His mouth watered. The edges of reality blurred, and his eyes were glazed with the haze of far away visions –– a long sought reality brought to bear on the present.

And Polo knew Ander loved him. He knew in so many ways, because despite the severe repression, the incalculable efforts Ander took to keep everyone at a safe distance, his love was fierce and intense.

Just as Polo never missed one of his tennis matches, Ander showed up to every piano recital Polo had ever performed.

He held Polo close after each one, never failing to bring flowers or chocolate or, at the minimum, a warm hug and words of encouragement.

“I’ve never heard anyone play so beautifully, Polo,” Ander would say, every single time, breath hot against his neck.

He would also hold Polo close at night, whenever they stayed over at each other’s homes and shared a bed. 

He somehow knew that Polo sought that closeness, that intimacy, that *feeling* that could only come from being in another’s arms.

But nothing ever happened after that.

Ander loved him, was his best friend even.

Ander was probably gay, but he didn’t love Polo the way he wanted to be loved.

He wanted Polo to be happy and gave as much as he could, but it wasn’t enough.

Polo’s intense infatuation with his friend was never enough to occupy his nervous hands, his nervous eyes, his nervous brain.

And his friend’s semi-reciprocation just made him feel worse, because he kept thinking — how could he demand more from someone who was already giving so much, given the context?

A closeted gay boy would hold him when he slept, but he wouldn’t surrender his heart.

Polo craved surrender.

—

And so when he saw Christian, he thought of Ander. It was probably because of the familiar tingling at the base of his spine, the thought that someone might finally be able to give him what he so desperately needed.

A place where he could just be himself. 

A place where he could surrender.

It didn’t hurt that Christian was incredibly gorgeous. All lean muscle and massive arms and fucking god just mouth watering in the locker room.

It’s so funny to imagine, in a moment of silent recognition, that a person you’d just seen for the first time might be able to give you something that someone you’d loved for years had never been able to provide by herself. 

Polo loved Carla, really. He did. With so much of his heart. 

But there was still so much left to give, to receive, and Polo…for all his faults, was never one to hold back.

He wanted to give and get it all. He wanted everyone to love him, to soothe him, to satisfy the burning need inside of him to know that his existence pleased somebody. Anybody. Every body.

But really he needed one body. One that he could claim as his. One that he could give his own. Completely. Unconditionally. Forever.

And Carla got so close to that. She gave him as much of herself, her family, her life, that she could.

And somehow he knew it was a never ending love.

And he gave his relationship with her everything that he could. 

Carla loved Polo, and Polo loved Carla. Truly, and with an insatiable desire. Every time he was inside her, Polo felt like home. He felt like everything he had ever worked for had…worked. It was all worth it. His entire self, completed, in one moment, a gigantic climax inside a woman he loved.

When she kissed him, it was familiar. When she hugged him, Polo liked to lay his head against the soft cushion of her breasts. He never mentioned how much he liked it, but to him it was like a quiet part of his mind was answering a call only it understood –– a call that felt private, intimate, not to be shared, even with her. 

When Carla looked at him across a crowded room, sharing a secret glance, a secret smile, a secret warmth, Polo knew that he belonged. 

He’d met her first when they were 12 years old. He’d taken one look at her, under the gaze of his two moms and her ferocious parents, and suddenly declared, sure for the first time in his young life, “We’re gonna get married.”

But eventually, as he got to know Carla and learn to love her, there came a sudden shock.

Polo was 14. He’d met Ander a couple weeks prior. It was summer, and they’d played a friendly tennis match at the local club — completely by happenstance. Polo lost, but halfway through the match, somewhere between love and advantage, Ander took off his shirt.

He was perfect, and even if there roles were reversed — if Ander had been a prodigy with a piano and if Polo had been a tennis star in the making — Polo knew he would’ve lost the match anyway.

So Polo knew that Carla wasn’t enough, but she was the start of something great.

—

But really, the first time he saw Christian fucking Carla, Polo thought of Ander. He thought of Ander fucking him, loving him, the way he wanted needed desperately desired to be loved.

He’d thought of that many times, but he’d given up some time ago, resigned to the loneliness of someone who wants too much from life.

But when he saw Christian, he thought that maybe he’d been wrong. He saw how Carla moved around the other boy, saw the desire burning in her eyes, flames licking her skin and making her wet. 

Maybe he could have it all.

And the first time Christian kissed him, at the benefit gala, the home of the Marchioness herself, Polo lit up with the fire of a thousand suns.

He felt safe, like he belonged, and a supernova went off inside his chest.

And then came the time that Christian *didn’t* kiss him.

Polo imagined a meteor hitting the earth. The sudden impact, followed by a massive expulsion of dirt and stone and water. A hole in the ground, hollowed out, hallowed out, by the primordial forces of nature, of the universe, of natural law. 

After that, it was always hard to tell what Christian wanted. And all Polo wanted to do was make him happy. He just wanted to be enough for him, even though he knew, somewhere in the deep recesses of everything that he was, that Christian probably wasn’t enough for *him.*

Polo needed more. He needed everything. He needed every single fucking drop of love he could soak up from anyone who would give it to him. He needed it from Carla. From Christian. From Ander. From Marina. From Guzman. Even from fucking Nadi and Samu, the diminutives always in his head because he craved closeness and intimacy even from those who never wanted anything from him, from those who had never liked him. 

—

The first time he wrapped his lips around Christian’s cock, Polo did it because he wanted to feel real. He wanted the love the feel real. He wanted to be wanted. 

He also desperately needed Christian to understand how much he loved him. 

With every fiber in his being.

But he was stupid. He wasn’t even thinking when he made Christian let him sink to his knees in front of him, as he kissed down that gorgeous chest, worshipped the boy in front of him.

He’d wanted to say, “Let me do this for you.” Instead, he’d said “If you don’t allow this, I’ll fuck you up.”

All Polo ever did was fuck things up.

Trying to prove himself, his worth, to other people.

That led him to the present moment. The moment he visited Christian in Switzerland, swiping his mothers’ credit card and getting on the first plane, the first weekend for which he knew it would work.

He entered the room slowly, hesitant and unsure.

He saw Christian for the first time in a month.

Christian was broken, his leg still encased in a steel contraption designed to set him straight.

Not that Polo thought he needed much help with that.

He was almost naked, hospital gown long abandoned and shirt shucked off, thrown into a corner. His briefs provided more material for the imagination than they did for his modesty.

Polo, despite the murderous guilt raging under his skin, appreciated the view.

He approached quietly, hoping that Christian was asleep, hoping that he could rest his gaze on the other boy for just a short while uninterrupted.

But then Christian opened his eyes, glaring straight at Polo with a murderous rage of their own.

“The fuck are you doing here, puta?”


	2. Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to continue this. It’s not over til it’s over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Certified Dumbass for the inspiration to continue even beyond this original end. 
> 
> Im gonna follow this arc out QUITE A BIT.

Because he was extremely stupid, and the most emotionally vulnerable he’d ever been (which was saying something — Polo felt harder and deeper and more intensely than most people on a normal Tuesday), Polo responded to that question by leaning down and kissing him.

The kiss was gentle, humble, with a lack of confidence that made very little sense, given his extreme intelligence, his bountiful heart, his generosity of love, his prodigious talent in being what other people wanted — his securely held knowledge of an innate ability to please. 

It was a talent he’d honed through years of unrequited love for his best friend, years of requited love for a woman who was now Christian’s girlfriend, and years of desperation manifested in the most insidious ways, somewhere deep inside himself.

But Christian brought out the worst in him. Or perhaps it was the best. Either way, it was the kind of insecurity that belongs in a shitty airport in a rural village somewhere nobody is trying to go. The kind of insecurity that meant someone could walk onto a plane with a bomb in his bag and no one would know until it exploded.

Christian, true to his own nature, did not respond at all. His lips were stone. His face was cold and enviably unmoved. Polo hadn’t thought to close his eyes, so he was forced to stare into the unfeeling depths of an uninterested partner.

But still, he noted — for the millionth time — just how beautiful Christian’s eyes were. How easy it would be to lose himself inside them/him. 

Once a few uncomfortable seconds had passed, Polo pulled away and laid his head to rest on Christian’s bare chest. 

What he said was “I missed you,” but what he meant was “I’m sorry.” He meant “I love you.”

He mouthed the words into the warm skin beneath his lips, and Polo trusted Christian just enough to think he would understand them, muffled as they were, even if he refused to acknowledge their dual meaning. 

But he didn’t expect the sharp tug of Christian’s hands, which came from nowhere to grip his hair and his neck, pulling his head up, crashing lips against his own.

Christian invaded him. His tongue licking deep into his mouth, his lips harsh and wonderful and burning against his own.

It was the kind of kiss Polo had read about, the kind he’d seen only on a silver screen, the kind he’d dreamed about.

It was passion given a body and a soul, brought out of a dark nothingness and breathed into life by the heat of creation itself.

Polo closed his eyes then, and his body became molten steel, ready to be melded and hardened into whatever shape was desired by its wielder.

He felt Christian’s hands cup his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, moving to tug his hair, to press him closer.

Polo responded with enthusiasm, unleashing an untamed but deeply repressed desire, finally surrendering to a pull he’d felt for over a year. He kissed Christian back with everything he had. He was a bit too desperate, a bit too much, a bit too aggressive, even. But entirely genuine, entirely sincere, entirely himself.

As he pulled back, Polo immediately recognized the closed off look Christian leveled at him. His eyes were shut, his lips drawn up in a grimace. It was the same face Christian had given him after they’d finished exchanging blow jobs. 

A look that said: fuck you and no I did not enjoy that. 

“Christian…please.” Polo knelt next to the hospital bed, head down against its edge, arms hanging loosely by his sides.

“Please what? Please suck my dick so I can be on the cover of a magazine? Please cover up a fucking murder for me? Please fucking what, Polo? Polito?” The last was said with an ugly sneer, an up and down glance at his body, making Polo want to curl in on himself and disappear.

“Christian…please,” Polo said, flinching and at a loss for words, plaintive and humiliated and desperate all at once.

Christian laid back, tucked his arms around his head, laying there in the hospital bed with a broken body and a face full of flat denial.

“I’m gonna need more than that, Polo. Why did you do that? Why did you kiss me?”

“Well why the fuck did you kiss me back you fucking dick?”

“What was that?” Christian’s voice was harsh. “Speak up, Polito, stop talking to the floor and fucking look at me.”

So Polo did. Christian had sat up, and was staring down imperiously at him, sharp and unforgiving. Polo looked into his eyes and saw pain and intense dislike, bordering on hatred. 

He curled in on himself, sitting back on his heels, bringing his arms tight across his own body, trying to shield himself from the blackness radiating from Christian, emanating from his heart and focused like a laser beam on Polo’s own. 

His voice was small and tight, reluctant to color his words with honesty, with confession.

“I wanted to make you love me. Please let me love you, Christian.”

Based on the other boy’s response, that was the wrong thing to say. His voice was fire and ash, spewing out magma until the sentences strung together like a lava flow headed to the dark abyss of the sea. When they reached it, they would drip down slowly, causing the surface to bubble and froth until the entire sea beneath the mountain was boiling and anathema to life itself. 

“Why are you such a fucked up pathetic piece of shit, Polo? Why do you speak one fucking language? Why is sex the only fucking thing that matters to you? Why can’t you just be fucking normal and stop being so fucking awful?”

Through the tears running down his face, exploding artesian wells unearthed by the gods themselves, Polo responded, voice cracking and unsure and full of every insecurity that Christian was accusing him of possessing.

“That’s not the fucking point, Christian! It’s not sex. I just. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” and he broke down, surrendering to the sobbing, to the bubbling panic attack boiling at the center of his chest, the pent up rage of a murderer who felt remorse and self-hatred and guilt and utterly wanted to erase his entire existence from the tapestry of humanity. From the arc of the fate of the world.

Christian hopped off his hospital bed, legs still unsure and unsteady, but assuredly capable of this.

He slumped down next to where Polo knelt, where his hands were wrapped around his head, where his stance suggested a prayer of forgiveness.

He gathered Polo into his arms like a prayer answered, tugging the smaller boy close to his chest, cradling his head tight against himself after moving the offending hands out of his way.

Once Polo was safe in his arms, Christian reached a hand up to brush against the other boy’s cheek, feeling the salty tears against his skin, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

He brought his thumb up to his own mouth. Polo’s tears tasted like holy water mixed with the blood of Christ, a confessional flooded with the sins of damned men.

They tasted like the seventh circle of Dante’s _Inferno_.

They tasted like hell itself.

“Aye, Polito. Hey. Baby. Stop. Stop crying. Let me hold you.” Christian felt the shudder that ran through the boy in his arms, twice. Once at “Polito” and once at “baby.” The kid needed it. Needed affection, strength, someone to love him against all odds, against everything.

Christian wasn’t sure he was the one to do that, but there he sat, holding a beautiful murderous boy in his arms.

So he held him until he fell asleep, not uttering another word, but rocking him slowly, his arms the undulating waves of a calmer, quieter, far more hospitable sea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next scene is gonna be sex and more sadness


	3. Play Me Like a Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some sexy stuff, some sadness, and Christian being an asshat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, to be clear...this is happening in the past. Flashback!

Christian had no trouble remembering the first time he’d thought of Polo as *Polo*, instead of as Polo, Carla’s boyfriend.

It was a few weeks after they’d started a dangerous game of ménage à trois, and he was fighting with Carla about something stupidly meaningless.

Something to do with some nasty drawings he may have left on Polo’s locker in permanent marker.

He was in the courtyard, having a quick smoke between classes, when Polo approached him. He adopted an unimpressed look, carefully calculated to convey how little he cared for the conversation that was about to commence.

There’s a little poetry among the lower classes, and although sometimes it leaves much to be desired, it more often leaves a stronger impression than those with power or wealth or self-importance would like to think.

Polo’s face was graced with something Christian refused to consider a warm smile. He held in his hands, of all things, a cheap cardboard tray, holding two plastic cups of what the actual fuck is that Starbucks coffee in Las Encinas??

This was quickly becoming the most American thing Christian had ever experienced in his young life.

Polo did little to knock that particular image, all swagger and confidence, stopping in front of Christian and pulling out one of the (wow really?) iced coffees, handing it to Christian in a smooth movement, following up with a paper bag that possibly contained a shitty croissant.

“I heard you and Carla had a fight, and I thought you could use a pick me up. I remember you telling her about the one time you were in New York to see your uncle and had what sounded like the most ridiculous coffee ever. Not quite the same, since we’re here at home –– it’s an iced americano, not an iced coffee, but I thought you might like it,” and wow Polo was rambling like a nerve-addled junkie looking for a quick fix, possibly trying to scam a relative with a get rich quick scheme that was 100% going to fuel a meth-laden night out on the town instead.

Christian frowned in disbelief, ignoring the offered coffee in Polo’s outstretched hand. “You thought you could butter up to Carla by being nice to me even though we were fighting? She’s over you, Polo. This isn’t going to win her back, you stupid bastard.” He leaned back as he said it, folding his arms around behind his neck and sneering as if he were as posh as the boy in front of him, as if he deserved to condescend to Polo like a feudal lord to a lowly serf.

They hadn’t hooked up as a threesome in over a week, and Christian was increasingly satisfied with his plan, per Nano’s recommendation, to try to push him out and claim Carla all to himself. It seemed to be working.

Polo’s eyed widened perceptibly. “No, no, Christian! I just wanted to do something nice for you.” His jaw trembled, and intense fear flashed through his eyes. Christian failed to notice both of those things, too focused on choosing an exaggerated yawn to accompany his response.

“Yeah yeah, whatever, Polo. The only nice thing you could do for me is disappear and stop trying to steal my girlfriend back. Carla’s mine now, this fight will pass, and you’ll still be alone.” He casually stubbed out his cigarette on the piece of bench next to him, disdainfully flicking the butt in Polo’s general direction.

This time, he did notice the rage that passed across Polo’s face, a storm of anger and hurt, and he filed away one particular observation: just how quickly it came and then passed, like a quick breeze through the flexible leaves of a tall tree –– it was only those at the very top that were disturbed, and if you only looked at the bottom, you wouldn’t have even noticed it. It was replaced by a blank expression, one worn by repeated use.

Polo was calm but clipped: “Fuck you, Christian. Enjoy the fucking coffee.” He leaned forward with the dignity that only those of wealth could maintain, refusing to bend his neck as he sat the coffee down next to Christian. He turned on his heel, began to walk away, then just as quickly rounded on him once more. He paused, meeting Christian’s gaze squarely, before chucking the paper bag with all his might, hitting Christian square in the chest.

He then spun back around, and continued on his way, head held high, leaving sparks in his wake.

Christian blinked, slowly. He absently moved his hands from where they were still folded behind his head, picking up the paper bag and peering inside it. Sure enough, there was a shitty Starbucks croissant.

But, also inside, squeezed between the pastry and the bag, was a small napkin, covered in Polo’s flowing script (not that Christian recognized it. Really.) He dug it out, unfolding it carefully, deciding to satisfy his curiosity and just give it a read. Maybe pretending to care would help him make up with Carla.

_Hope you feel better, Christian!_

_Don’t worry, Carla never stays angry long, and whatever it is, you two will be back to normal soon. Good luck!_

_xxx_

_– Polo_

What the actual fuck.

—

Hours later found Christian walking up the path to the front(?) door of Polo’s mansion. At a minimum, it was the door he’d always used, somewhat accessible from the street, if being glared at by lawn maintenance staff and a suspicious butler on the way in counted as “accessible.” He’d been there a few times, though, so he more or less let himself in with ease, nodding at the maids and slipping his way through corridors and rooms and endless space.

Lost in thought, he didn’t quite follow where his feet took him, until the jarring noise of percussive piano music broke through his thoughts, forcing him to look up.

He stood in the doorway to a massive hall, near empty save for a gigantic grand piano shoved off to one side, radiant in the sunlight, which poured through an entire wall of windows at least 15 meters long, as well as a small figure seated on its bench.

The figure, facing away from him, was all sharp lines and taught muscle, hands flying across the keys with grace, enthusiasm, and vigor. He was shirtless, and Christian could see the way his back rippled as his hands furiously banged out an unearthly escape.

It was Polo.

Polo as Christian had never seen him before, consumed by melodic intensity, straining to break through some barrier, chords and notes and keys –– weapons black as iron and sharp as steel.

He could almost see a set of quicksilver doors shuddering, falling away in the wake of such beautifully expressive music, shearing and rending apart a hidden veil over his current reality, unblocking a birthright access to something more profound –– a hidden grace that danced just out of sight, directing and rejoicing in the light his eyes were born to see.

Possibly due to the magic of the moment, when a hand gently clamped down on his shoulder, Christian did not yelp in surprise. Instead, he silently turned around, coming face to face with Andrea, one of Polo’s mothers.

She was holding a glass of red wine, full to the brim, and her face was inscrutable. The two stared at each other for more time than was strictly polite, her grip on Christian’s shoulder somehow becoming vice-like without tightening a bit.

Eventually, Andrea released him, nodding her head toward the small antechamber outside the piano hall, a clear indication that he should follow.

She led him to a generous bar cart sitting against a side wall, which in his wanderings Christian had failed to notice. As she poured him a hefty glass of wine, with practiced hands that didn’t necessitate the guidance of her gaze, she continued to stare at him.

Christian grew uncomfortable –– his facade felt pierced. He unconsciously brought his arms up to hug himself, trying to shrink away from the knowing of his soul that was happening right in front of him.

Andrea gave him the full glass, trapping his hand as he reached out to grasp it.

“It’s Prokofiev’s _Piano Concerto No. 1_, my dear.” At Christian’s blank look, she continued: “In D-flat Major.”

At his continued non-responsiveness, her gaze shifted from sharp to mildly amused, and she released him. “The song Polo is playing right now. It’s Prokofiev. My son has always been drawn to the more modern composers, god bless his heart.”

At this, Christian shook himself awake. He swallowed nervously before replying, taking a deep sip of the wine and oh god that was fucking delicious. He took another long sip, searching for easy comfort.

“I know very little about music, ma’am. All I know is that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Her smile became feral, teeth shining beneath the blue-white light of a Tiffany chandelier. “The most beautiful thing you have ever heard, I’m sure you meant.”

Christian, recognizing his mistake, demurred with a twist, averting his eyes. “I’m sure.”

Clearly done with the games, Andrea’s voice was cold, flat, and controlled. “Hurt my son, and you will never hear…and you will definitely not…see…anything like it again.”

“Mother, please. Let’s not scare our guests.” Christian spun around to see Polo leaned up against the archway, languid and relaxed in a way that somehow belied practiced ease.

He was faking the fuck out of all of it.

But Andrea played along, flitting her hands in her son’s general direction. “Do put on a shirt, Polito. You’re stunning this guest into more stupidity than he generally exhibits.”

It was Polo’s turn for a sharp and wild smile, all teeth. “But mother dearest, you’ve always taught me it’s best to retain the advantage when one is entertaining in his own home.”

Andrea laughed then, high and light and crystalline without being cold, and Christian was aware that she had deliberately shed an outer layer, taking off one of many masks (or perhaps trading them out?) for his benefit.

But her voice was undoubtedly warmer when she replied, “I see you have this one in hand, my son. Try not to clutch too tightly. He looks ready to run for the hills.”

And then she slipped away without a backward glance, off toward one of the many rooms, wine glass poised up and off to the side, trailing her like a specter of her own obnoxious wealth.

Christian watched her retreating form until she'd disappeared from sight.

He turned to Polo, who hadn't moved an inch and was regarding him thoughtfully, curiosity the only emotion that slipped through an otherwise closed-off expression. It shined in his eyes, a golden glint that couldn't be hidden because it was too bright and alive.

"I brought you something," Christian started, as he reached into the long-forgotten bag on his shoulder, swinging it low before opening it. He carefully rummaged for a minute, digging out a white cardboard box with a simple cord-like string wrapped around it.

"It's from that place you like. Chocolate and raspberry. I think I remembered right," and Christian truly hoped he had. He'd gone searching for the bakery as soon as school had let out, remembering Polo's raving about it a couple weeks prior, the night they'd both fucked Carla into oblivion and then watched Polo cook them food and pour them wine and bring out an impressive dessert. Christian hadn't had a chance to try it –– he'd been too busy tackling the other boy and laughing hysterically, telling him he was too good of a host. That had started round two, and the cake had been discarded quickly after that.

He'd been a little annoyed that a fucking cake could cost €50, but he'd bought it without too much fuss, and now he was holding it out to Polo in search of forgiveness.

Polo's expression didn't shift, except for a small raising of his eyebrows. He made no move to take the cake, so Christian walked forward slowly, cautiously, reaching out with one hand to rearrange Polo's form, bringing one of his arms out and placing the box in the crook of his bent elbow.

Satisfied with the arrangement, he backed off, stopping a few paces away.

"You know, someone in the school seems to think that by sleeping with you and Carla, that makes me a faggot. What do you think of that, Christian?" Polo's voice was tightly neutral, revealing no trace of emotion whatsoever.

Polo’s simple, but somehow all important trust that it wasn’t Christian who had defiled his locker with graphic dicks and harsh words, with insults designed to degrade him and make him feel like the faggot he was. The trust was, for Christian, all consuming as well. At least in the moment.

“You know I would never do anything to hurt you,” Christian lied, trying to be as convincing as possible.

Polo laughed. “I know it was you, Christian. Do you think I’m stupid?” His words weren’t harsh. Polo delivered the truth gently, with a lopsided smile that met his eyes in a way it shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have been so pleased to share his brilliance, not in that moment. “I was trying to tell you that it’s okay, that I don’t mind,” and then suddenly what appeared to be naivety became wisdom, inspired compassion and overwhelming depth that was entirely unexpected in a boy of 16.

All that was delivered in a moment of physical vulnerability, by a boy standing before him shirtless, in sweats slung slow on slim hips, one bare foot reaching up to rub down his calf, a single hand slinging over a shoulder to scratch the back of his neck, revealing an irresistible patch of dark hair under his arm, matching the lighter trail leading from a delicious looking belly button down to the top of frayed pants.

Christian swallowed tightly. In the moment, he couldn’t even remember why he’d decided to write those words on Polo’s locker, why he’d decided to attack him, why he’d decided to deride the other boy as a fag.

“Well then. I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t really want to…I just…”

“Everything hurts, Christian. Everything always hurts. Why don’t you come over here and hurt me in a way I’d like?” He set the cake down on the bar cart, sauntering his way back toward the piano hall, body on display and twisting in sinuously sinful ways, tempting him greatly.

Christian wasn't one to deny himself the indulgence of sin, and so he marched forward, swift strides and wide shoulders and an intimidating pace, discarding his bag off to one side in a singular, fluid motion. Polo closed his eyes and stilled his movement as Christian approached, a previously undiscovered tension rolling off his shoulders, shedding years until he looked 16 again.

Christian gripped him hard around the waist, lifting him with ease, carrying him back until they slammed into the edge of the piano. Then, with unexpected gentleness, he lifted Polo higher, laying him down carefully, slowly, reverently.

Once that task was complete, the intensity picked up again, as Christian ripped those teasing fucking pants off the other boy, eyeing the stunning cock, already hard and leaking, that slapped up against the solid warmth of Polo's abdomen.

He'd only ever given a single blowjob in his entire life, and he would never admit it, but he'd been studying up on it ever since. He never thought he'd suck Polo off again, but in the off chance it ever did occur, Christian wanted to be an expert.

So he put his research to work, leaning in to suck on the warmth of his partner's balls, to teasingly lick him, to tug down on the foreskin just a bit and gently suck the more exposed tip.

He continued as Polo writhed beneath him, pushing back against bucking hips, likely leaving finger lines of bruises, his handprint etched into the bronze skin that radiated warmth and pleasure and the utter contentment of being alive and cared for and loved.

He continued until Polo's breaths became short gasps, until the fingers running through his hair stilled and grabbed tight and pulling, until the moans that filled the piano hall carved their own impression of otherworldly beauty into the walls themselves.

He continued until Polo shot a massive load down his throat, filthy and disgusting and beautiful all at once.

When Polo was sated, when he was taken care of and beautifully relaxed and at ease and full of warmth and smiles and sunshine once again, Christian tucked him back into his sweatpants and helped him off the piano. He kept his hands on Polo for as much of the process as possible, not wanting to let him go.

He pulled Polo in for a searing kiss, trying to convey an apology and an interest and a sincerity he wasn't entirely sure he possessed but desperately wished for.

And when that was done, he pulled back, breathing more words into the space between them, trying to make this moment of intimacy as full as possible.

"Take me to your room. I'm gonna fuck you so hard you can't walk for a week," he said.

At that, Polo let out a barking, delighted laugh, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward his room.

—

Later, when they had finished what was perhaps the most mind-blowing sex either one of them had ever had in their young lives, Christian couldn't get enough of him. He tugged Polo as close as possible, harsh and biting –– gripping tight –– trying to force him inside himself so that they could become one being.

“I can’t seem to let you go, right now,” he murmured into Polo's ears. A paltry explanation, but the only one he could offer in the moment.

“I’m not sure why you’d want to, but I am sure you’ll remember how to in a couple hours. Go to sleep, beautiful.”

So Christian did.

—

When he woke up, the couple of hours later that Polo had promised, the other boy was still in his arms. They were still a bit sweaty and sticky and very much naked, and he could feel the long lines of Polo’s unfairly perfect body against his own.

He disentangled himself, climbing out of the bed, getting dressed in the dark that had fallen over the room. He stood in front of Polo’s sleeping form, debating whether or not he should leave.

He didn't know how to stay, so he didn't.

Christian Varela Expósito didn’t know how to love Polo.

But he’d become quite good at hurting him.

And so he left. 

—  
As he walked out the door, his last thought was of the cake. He hoped Polo remembered to eat it, and the only clear conviction he could muster was that he hoped Polo liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I have no clue why Andrea is included in this scene. She just came marching in like Narcissa Malfoy proclaiming that Harry Potter is dead and her son is a god. I'm not getting between an angry mama bear and her kid!


	4. The End of the World as We Know It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Polo and Christian start the beginning of the end

“I tried to kill myself, you know,” Polo said, breaking the silence in a frank, almost nonchalant tone. He was laying mostly on Christian, head resting on his wrists, elbows splayed out against the other boy’s stupidly wide chest. He could feel Christian’s cock against his lower abdomen, and he idly considered what round two would be like. 

* * *

It was a few weeks after everything had ended, after everything had settled. Christian had returned, whole and alive, and Polo had sweated out the storm that resulted from him killing Marina. No one had been caught, no one had been tortured to tell the truth. 

Polo has gotten away with it. He’d survived, just as one like him does. 

He’d wormed his way back into Christian’s heart, his bed, his soul.

He’d made it, and the only thing on his mind was how he could could get Christian to love him, to hold him, to have him forever.

Carla had abandoned him. Samu suspected and hated him. Guzman knew nothing but couldn’t love him the way he needed.

He needed Christian. He needed someone who knew him but loved him all the same. 

And so he crawled into his bed, into his atmosphere, and breathed deep.

Polo hoped for the best and expected the worst. 

* * *

Polo was unsurprised, though thoroughly disappointed in the response to his confession.

Christian simply rolled his eyes, pulling him up and leaning in to kiss him again, brief and chaste, the only kiss their intimate position could afford, but carried out with the kind of affection that only comes after incredibly intense sex. “You didn’t succeed?” 

Polo’s laugh was rueful, no longer as bitter as it would’ve been just a few hours prior. “I got the alcohol-to-pill ratio wrong. I got so drunk I fell off the chair into the pool at school before the Xanax could shut my brain down all by itself.” 

“You’re the dumbest motherfucker I’ve ever known, Polo.” 

“The dumbest motherfucker you’ve ever loved?” Polo was extremely hesitant with that one, extremely obvious, not subtle in the fucking least. He raised his head from where he was counting the sparse hairs on his lover’s chest, meeting Christian’s eyes, aiming for a playful smirk that turned into something with too many teeth, too much self-deprecation, too much angst for the moment it had been called for. 

He might as well have been on his knees, begging for the response he wanted to hear. 

“Hmmmmm. We’ll see,” Christian tried to be enigmatic, but he mostly just came off like an asshole. 

And, at that moment, something quite large inside Polo died anyway, and it wasn’t the part he’d once tried to kill. 

* * *

Round two was horrible. Christian fucked him into the mattress with the strength and vigor of a thousand youthful men, fucked him so hard that he couldn’t walk straight the next day. His fingertips bruised Polo’s slim hips, dark marks of shameful glory that lasted almost a week. His teeth marked Polo’s neck, and even though Christian’s cum leaked out of Polo’s ass during his long ride home, it felt to Polo like it had lodged itself somewhere deep inside him –– not creating life, but firmly planting seeds of destruction that would snake through him for the rest of his life, a cancer that would eventually do what Polo himself had failed to achieve. 

Normally, that’s what Polo would’ve wanted. He wanted rough, passionate sex. He wanted to feel desired and claimed, but most importantly he wanted to feel loved. 

In the end, waiting for Christian to love him would kill him. 

Polo might have been fine with that. He’d been suicidal long before he’d met Christian, and he’d thought he might always stare into the abyss and wonder if it was his time, if it was his turn to reach out to death and make a deal. 

But, truly, he’d hoped that, before Christian killed him, or before he killed himself, that Christian could’ve loved him first. 

—

After that night, Polo avoided Christian for more more than 10 years. He avoided going to jail, too, which he attributed to the magic of his mothers’ wealth. 

Mostly he avoided Christian by blocking his number and Instagram, ignoring him every day they went to school together, and moving halfway around the fucking world to New York to attend Columbia — once Samu had returned and Polo got out of jail and nobody else died and they finally graduated from Las Encinas. 

He withdrew completely, and by the time he left, he’d had no friends. He’d had nobody. 

Except Ander. Ander, his oldest friend and his first love. Ander, who somehow knew when Polo was feeling particularly close to his wit’s end. Ander, who always seemed to guess right. 

Ander, who would come over late at night with a bottle of wine, exchange very few words over drinks, then fuck him like a man possessed. 

He’d always kiss Polo with a ferocious love, too. Exactly how Polo liked it. 

That, combined with the ridiculous whisperings in his ear, “Polo, you’re so beautiful, cum for me baby,” made for 30 minutes of human connection once or twice a month, a connection that made him feel just alive enough to keep on living. 

Polo truly had no idea if Omar and Ander were still together, if Omar knew about it, or if he approved. Nor did he particularly care. 

It wasn’t his job to worry about that sort of thing, and he was hardly one to judge the intricacies of a loving and presumably functional relationship. 

Besides, he knew Ander only did it because the guilt would’ve torn him apart if, one morning, he’d woken up to learn that Polo had offed himself in the night. 

Not exactly noble any way you spun it.


End file.
